"I'm Not Crazy"

XXII.

My mother hadn't made much progress on the dinner dishes yet. She'd not gone directly to the kitchen, as evidenced by the bag of formula now suspended slightly above Matthews chair. He was receiving his nutrition through a tube in his stomach, just like he'd been receiving it since the night of the bullet. It was protruding out the collar of his dinner shirt, now unbuttoned half to his navel. His skinny mottled chest was on display. She had at least politely waited to do that until the family was done eating. Matthew was blinking, but otherwise still lifeless.

Now that she'd declared that task well enough on its way, she was clearing the table. I stepped in to help her.

"I really like your friend," my mother said in greeting. "He seems like a fine young man."

"Thank you," I said, although it hadn't exactly been a compliment.

"And it seems like you're doing well," she added. "You look... better. Happier maybe."

I looked up from the plates I'd gathered, but she wasn't even looking my way. She was already on her way towards the kitchen with cups in her grip. I followed dutifully.

"We're really happy you came," she was saying as she went.

Suspicion tried to creep in. I swallowed it down and met her at the sink, settling down the plates while she started to run the water. I tried to pretend again that I wasn't the person that had disassociated my way through the meal. I was her daughter. I was an adult. I was a free adult visiting home, and I could not get in trouble for being normal... for existing.

"I got a job," I blurted out.

My mom looked at me, and suddenly her smile seemed more real. It seemed genuine and almost prideful in a way that displayed someone who had almost forgotten how to feel pride.

"Really?" She pressed.

"It was required by the caseworker," I said, and I shouldn't have said that, but I didn't know how to talk to her. I tried to ramble quickly through the rest. "But yeah! I interviewed and they offered me the job a few weeks ago. I start right after the new year."

She was the first person I'd told. I'd sent the offer letter to my caseworker, but this was my mom. It wasn't an employee. It was a real person, who was supposed to care about me and she was smiling, and I'd never expected to see something like that in her face ever again. I thought about how she chastised me over the phone. I wondered who was watching.

"We're so happy you're here," she said again. That time it was real. That time, her tone held nothing of the false higher pitched softness that submissive women were to have. She meant it. I was sure she meant it.

I thought of the mom I used to have. I thought about the mom that lived for my dad. I thought about the mom that would never accept less until she did.

"Franklin has barely looked at me," I said quietly.

"He's just surprised that you would bring a man home, knowing our beliefs, Charlotte," she answered, and her voice stayed the same even though I felt distinctly criticized. It made it more palatable, like she was almost amused by me. "I think you can understand that."

"Right," I said with a stiff nod. "But Riley is... we're just friends."

I couldn't exactly say that he was a homosexual. I didn't think that was going to help anything in the end. She was being kind, and genuine, and I had no reason to question a belief system that had stayed constant even in my absence for a decade. Maybe a decade had let her get softer. Maybe our phone calls weren't enough for me to truly see her.

"Well, even as just friends," she mused. She rolled her eyes a little playfully. "Sometimes it's about how things appear. Franklin is particular."

"But what about you?" I asked. Notably she went back to the dishes. She'd asked me for help, but I was now seeing that she'd really just settled for letting me hover in her vicinity. I dared to think that was maybe what she wanted all along. "What do you think?"